


Shotgun for my Real Friends

by vogonssuck



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Hand Jobs, I love drunk!Stan bye, Kissing, Multi, Shotgunning, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 12:55:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12864939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vogonssuck/pseuds/vogonssuck
Summary: The Losers are hanging out and Richie is twitchy. Stan and Bev decide they know just the thing to calm him down, but Stan ends up the center of attention.





	Shotgun for my Real Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Losers are college-aged!

“Hey Trashmouth, throw me the chips, would you?”

 

“Go long, Haystack!” Richie Tozier lobbed the bag of Ruffles across the Denbrough basement, missing Beverly Marsh’s head by a narrow margin. 

 

“Watch it, Rich! You wouldn’t want to damage these goods.” She linked her hands under her chin and batted her lashes at him. 

“If I break it, do I get to buy it?” he responded suggestively. She flipped him the bird and turned back to Ben, who had been tossing back whiskey shots for the better part of an hour and a half and was now attempting to describe to Bev in detail his architectural capstone project. 

 

Richie surveyed the basement. Mike and Eddie were draped across opposite ends of the couch, their feet crossed over Bill’s lap. Eddie had in his hand what appeared to be straight vodka and grenadine – Richie nearly gagged at the thought – and Mike was nursing a gin and tonic. Bill was holding an IPA – he purported to enjoy them, but if you watched closely, and Richie often did, you began to notice that he winced every time he took a sip.

 

Ben had connected his phone to the speaker, which was now softly playing “Quit Playing Games with my Heart” by the Backstreet Boys. Leave it to Haystack to make everyone relive the 90s, Richie thought, and drummed his fingers on the carpet. Everyone else seemed languid, relaxed. He and Bev had gone toe to toe on tequila shots, and he’d conceded defeat, but the alcohol hadn’t had the slowing effect he’d expected. He hugged his knees to his chest and tapped his feet up and down, enjoying the quiet swish of the hems of his jeans. 

 

A hand reached forward from behind and tapped his shoulder. Richie turned. Stan Uris, who was sitting with his back against the wall, was smiling at him. “C’mere, Rich,” he slurred lightly, and patted the carpet next to him. 

 

Richie scooted towards Stan, joining him in leaning against the wall. “How ya doin’, buddy?” he asked. Richie had to laugh a little – Stan had spilled a bit of red wine down the front of his mint-green short-sleeved oxford, and his hair and collar were mussed and his cheeks flushed. 

 

“I’m great!” Stan held up his glass of wine for a second before lifting it to his lips. 

 

“I’m sure you are,” Richie chuckled, “Let’s get you some pretzels or something.” Richie pressed his hand against the shag carpet, pushing himself up, but Stan grabbed the back of his Hawaiian shirt and pulled him back down. 

 

“I don’t want pretzels. You’re being twitchy.” Stan said matter-of-factly, pausing for a moment before smiling into his wine glass as if enjoying a private joke. 

 

“He’s always twitchy, Stanley,” Eddie half-shouted from the couch. He lolled to the side, vodka-grenadine concoction swishing treacherously. Bill plucked it from his hand and leaned forward to set it on the coffee table, earning himself a pinch from Eddie. 

 

“Is he being especially twitchy?” asked Bev, turning to meet Stan’s gaze with a glint in her eye. Stan nodded as solemnly as he could muster. “Well, I’ve got just the thing.” She leaned to her side and fished under the coffee table for her purse. She got purchase on the purse and pulled it out, rifling through it. After a minute, she found what she was looking for – a small bag of green-blue marijuana and a purple and red-swirled pipe. 

 

“Denbrough, got a lighter?”

 

“I do,” Mike piped up, lazily reaching into his back pocket and pulling out an orange Bic. He tossed it underhand to Bev, who caught it with her left hand. 

 

“Who wants in?” 

 

“I’m not moving,” Mike laughed. 

 

“Bill?” Bev asked. 

 

“No, I’ve guh-got an eh-eh-essay to write tomorrow. I can’t puh-party too hard.” He smiled sheepishly. 

 

“Eh –” Bev began, but Eddie had snuggled into the corner of the couch and fallen asleep. He was snuffling lightly. “Okay, that’s adorable. But I’ll take it as a no. Ben?”

 

Ben shook his head, soft blond hair flopping. 

 

“Guess it’s just me and you two losers.” She pushed herself to her feet, pocketing the lighter. “Tozier, you’re on Stan transport.” She flounced up the basement stairs, and moments later, they heard the open-and-shut of the kitchen’s screen door. 

 

Richie stood, stretching slightly before offering a hand to Stan. Stan accepted and Richie gave his hand a tug, pulling the bronze-haired boy to his feet. Stan stumbled slightly, and Richie looped an arm around his waist to steady him. Stan leaned in to Richie and they made their way up the stairs. 

 

Outside the kitchen door, Bev was standing on the patio taking the first puff. “Sharing is caring, Bevvie,” Richie said. He took a moment to make sure Stan was stable and then leaned over to Beverly, carefully accepting the glass pipe from her. He ran the calloused pad of his thumb over the wheel of the Bic, which sparked a few times before catching. He carefully held it over the bowl of the pipe and inhaled deeply, causing the embers to glow bright orange. The warm smoke in his chest was a welcome contrast to the chilly night air. He held his breath for a few minutes and released it shakily, playfully directing the tail-end of the stream of smoke at Bev. 

 

Stan moved in closer, sidling up to the other two. “My turn,” he said. 

 

“Okay,” Bev said, “You remember how to do it, right? Hold your thumb here –” She molded Stan’s hand into the correct shape and handed him the lighter. 

 

“Can you do it? I’m afraid I’ll burn myself,” he said, shivering slightly. She wouldn’t have refused him anyway, but she thought he looked especially pretty with wine-flushed cheeks and the halogen light from the porch glinting off his hair and lashes. 

 

“Sure,” she said, the word catching in her throat. She leaned in close to Stan, tilting the lighter into the bowl. She was intimately aware of Stan’s hair tickling her cheek and of her chest brushing against his upper arm. He began to inhale, breath hitching. As he stopped inhaling, Bev moved the bowl aside gently. 

 

Stan exhaled slowly at first, then all at once as he began to cough. The plume of white smoke rose and dissipated above their heads. After he had stopped coughing, he leaned his head back and wiped the beginnings of a tear from the corner of his eye. “Ow.” 

 

Bev laughed and patted his arm. “Do you want to try again?”

 

“Give me a minute.” Stan leaned against the siding next to the kitchen door, shoulders tense. 

 

Richie leaned over to Bev. His curls tickled her ear as he spoke, and she could smell the warm and pungent scent of the marijuana and the sharp bite of alcohol on his breath. “I think I can help him,” he whispered.

 

Bev turned her head, and her lips very nearly met Richie’s. She spoke quietly and deliberately. “What did you have in mind?” 

 

The corners of Richie’s lips curled into a smile. “Watch.” He took the pipe and lighter from her hand and lit it up, taking a large hit and handing it back. He then strode over to Stan and tipped his jaw upwards. Stan’s lips parted slightly – maybe in surprise, Bev thought – and Richie exhaled into his mouth. Stan tensed as he inhaled. 

 

As he breathed out, every bit of that tension dissolved. 

 

His head settled into Richie’s hand, and he looked up at him with wide eyes. “Again,” Stan said, his voice a little husky. Bev lit up again and inhaled, taking a moment to hand everything back to Richie. She gently placed her hand on Stan’s cheek, turning him to face her, and held it there as she tilted her head to exhale into his mouth. 

 

As she pulled back, he reached up to hold her wrist. He leaned in, bridging the gap between them and crashing his lips into hers. Bev stilled at first and then melted into the kiss, twining her free hand in Stan’s curls. She ran her tongue along his bottom lip and he exhaled, letting go of her wrist and settling both hands on her hips. 

 

Richie whistled, low and prolonged, as he set down the paraphernalia. “Can I get in on this?”

 

Bev and Stan, otherwise engaged, didn’t respond. Instead, Bev hooked her arm around Stan’s neck and pulled him in closer, and Stan pulled Bev’s hips flush with his own. “Guess I’ll just die alone, then,” Richie pouted. He began to croon, “ _ I ain’t got nobody...I’m so sad and lonely… _ ”

 

Before he could bemoan his fate further, Bev extended her arm and grasped at air without looking away from Stan. Richie stepped forward and her hand contacted his graphic tee. She twisted the fabric around her hand and tugged with a surprising amount of force, directing Richie towards Stan. Richie took the hint and stepped behind him. 

 

Richie rested his hands on Stan’s waist and craned down to ghost his lips along his neck. Stan shuddered and pushed back on Richie, who tightened his grip. Richie planted a line of slow, languid kisses along Stan’s neck, trailing up to his ear. “This okay?” Richie murmured in Stan’s ear. Stan reached back and traced his fingertips along Richie’s cheek, guiding his head back down to his neck. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

 

Bev rocked her hips into Stan’s and gave his curls a tug, and his breath quickened as a result. He broke the kiss, overwhelmed by the sensation, and tipped his head back to rest against Richie’s chest. 

 

Richie looked down at Bev, whose cheeks were flushed bright pink. Her own copper hair was in a state of disarray; yellow light shone through its little flyaways and created a halo of sorts and Richie thought it was fittingly angelic. He lost himself in the haze of the boy pressed against his chest, breathing heavily into the crisp night air, and in the green eyes of his best friend glinting up at him.  _ Rich _ , he heard, but it sounded far away, and so he sighed and reveled in the feeling. 

 

“Rich.” 

 

This time, he snapped to attention. Bev’s emerald eyes looked up at him expectantly, then flickered to Stan, and back to him. “Whaddaya say?” she breathed. 

 

“What?” Richie asked, Bev’s silent inquiry lost in transmission. 

 

Bev once again broke eye contact and focused her gaze on Stan, letting it linger there for a few seconds before looking pointedly back at Richie. “I said, whaddaya say?” A hint of a smirk played across her lips. 

 

“Oh.  _ Oh. _ ” Richie smiled, slowly and deviously. 

 

He gripped Stan’s hips and turned him around, maneuvering him towards the wall of the house left of the kitchen window. Their lips met as Richie pressed Stan against the siding. Richie bit Stan’s lower lip, earning a groan, and then slipped his tongue inside his mouth. Stan tasted like smoke and cheap red wine and maybe, though Richie could have been imagining it, mint toothpaste. They kissed desperately, too many clacking teeth to hold out any pretense of technique, but the heat was undeniable and Stan scrabbled at Richie’s back to pull him closer. 

 

Richie obliged, pressing his knee between Stan’s thighs. Stan moaned as he ground down on it, and Richie felt a sudden burst of arousal like a punch in the gut. He swiftly grabbed Stan’s thin wrists with one of his hands and slammed them against the siding above Stan’s head. Stan struggled against the pressure, but Richie’s lithe and strong fingers held fast. 

 

Bev approached and snuck a hand under Richie’s chin, turning his face towards hers for a quick kiss that turned deep and dirty. Richie ran his free hand down the small of Bev’s back and over the curve of her ass, settling into the back pocket of her cutoffs and squeezing. She gasped and dug her nails into his cheek, leaving a small scatter of reddened half-moons. Encouraged by her response, Richie squeezed again and pushed her up against his hipbone. She broke the kiss and looked up at him, fixating on his messy curls and slick, shiny lips and dark, lust-filled eyes. She grinned as she lightly ran her fingertips down his lower abdomen and lingered at his belt for a moment, teasing him. After what seemed like an eternity (to Richie, at least), she traced the outline of his stiff cock with her fingertips. 

 

Richie inhaled sharply. “Now, don’t go startin’ anythin’ you cain’t finish, darlin’.”

 

“You know I wouldn’t…” Bev began, but was cut off by a whimper. Stan bucked against Richie’s knee and looked at the two of them pitifully, his bottom lip pouted out.  

 

“Couldn’t wait, could you?” Richie asked, quirking his brow. 

 

“Someone please touch me,” Stan replied haltingly through gritted teeth. 

 

Bev and Richie glanced at one another. Bev shrugged. “Well, he  _ did _ say please...” 

 

Richie palmed Stan through his khakis with his free hand. “Say it again.”

 

“Please,” Stan half-whispered, voice cracking. 

 

“Good enough for me,” Richie said, releasing Stan’s wrists to grapple with his belt. He managed to unclasp it and pulled down the khakis, exposing Stan’s navy boxer briefs in the process. 

 

“Cute,” Bev said, leaning in to bury her face in Stan’s neck. “You’re so cute, you know that?” she murmured as she kissed his neck. He nudged her face upwards with her own and caught her lips in another deep, frantic kiss. There was an elastic  _ snap!  _ and the rustle of fabric, and then the slide of Bev and Stan’s tongues against the other was punctuated by a moan. Richie had begun to jerk Stan off in smooth, fluid motions. 

 

Bev took Stan’s hand in both of hers, kissing his fingertips lightly before pressing it against her blouse. Stan held his hand there, fingers rubbing slow circles around her nipple, before running his hand down her side and pulling her in even closer. He rested his other hand on Richie’s head, pushing the dark curls that had fallen in front of his eyes out of the way. Richie pressed a kiss to Stan’s hipbone and looked up at him over the rim of his glasses. He was momentarily transfixed by the way Bev and Stan moved in tandem – her breasts pressed against his chest, her hands cradling the back of his head, his lips bitten red. 

 

Richie ramped up the pace of his movements, and Stan’s kissing grew less rhythmic. His tongue moved in little bursts, echoing the stutter of his hips, and his breathing grew increasingly ragged. Before too long he buried his forehead in the crook of Bev’s neck and mumbled something too low to hear. 

 

“What was that?” she asked him, lips moving against the wispy margins of his curls. 

 

“Gonna come,” he mumbled again, shakily.

 

“Come for us, then,” Bev breathed. “Come on, baby.” As she spoke the last word, Stan’s orgasm hit him like a wave. It lapped and ebbed as Richie gently eased him through it. Stan slackened in Bev’s embrace, and she held him up with his arm around her shoulder. 

 

Richie looked at his hand in bemusement (and mild disgust) and gave it a cursory wipe on the Denbrough porch. He flicked his wrist as he rose to stand, wiping the very last on his blue jeans. Stan wrinkled his nose. “Gross.”

 

“What? Would you rather lick it off?” Richie said lasciviously as he leaned in to yank Stan’s boxers back up and button his slacks. “I bet you’d...” 

 

But he was cut off by the swing of the screen door. Bill popped his head outside. “You guh-guys having fun?” he asked, raising a brow. 

 

“Don’t we always, Denbrough?” 


End file.
